A Night in the Narrows
by Twinings
Summary: The toxin has been released. Can you hear the screaming yet?


Disclaimer time! I own nothing, _nothing,_ I say! Even the idea for this story was inspired by a single line from someone else's story: "A fleeting expression of terror, terror mixed with disgust, crossed the psychiatrist's strained face. 'Some of the inmates remembered me.'" To read that stylistically breathtaking story, read "Once I Was You" by ladyFrost2. But feel free to finish mine first.

A Night in the Narrows

The woman ran through the streets of the Narrows, screaming in terror. Monsters everywhere. Burning Things. She smelled the stench of smoldering human flesh. The smoke filled her lungs, choking her.

It had been about twenty minutes since the fear toxin had been released. Like most of her neighbors, the woman had no idea what was causing the widespread panic. She reacted exactly like everyone else, running in terror from her greatest fear.

She wasn't the only one running or screaming, not by a long shot, but she seemed to have stumbled into an empty section of the city. No people. No monsters. No Burning Things. She skidded to a stop, gasping for breath, leaning against a wall for support.

"Help me!" A man's voice, pitched high with terror, not far away. She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Please, somebody help me!"

Help the man, or run away? No question, she should escape before They got her, too.

Then she heard his anguished scream, and froze.

"Idiot," she whispered. She looked around for a weapon, and settled on an iron bar someone had ripped from a window grating. _Going to get yourself killed_.

She rounded the corner, holding the bar like a baseball bat. There were three men in the orange jumpsuits worn by the inmates of Arkham Asylum—only, she didn't see them that way. She simply saw them as Burning Things. One held a cigarette lighter near the face of the fourth man, the screamer, a puny little thing held up by the other two Burning Ones. He fought to escape their grip, but his struggles were aimless, fueled by pure panic with no real strength or planning. He didn't look capable of standing on his own.

"How about a little fire, Scarecrow?" said the one with the lighter. She winced. What a frighteningly bad line.

"Hey!" Surprisingly, her voice didn't shake. "Leave him alone." The Burning Ones turned to face her. One laughed, so she bashed his face in. The others let the scrawny guy fall.

"Help me," he whispered.

"I'll help you," she promised. The Burning Ones circled around her, grinning.

"You're the one who's going to need help, little girl."

What kind of idiots actually talked like that?

One of them rushed her. She smashed his kneecap and watched him go down. The other hung back a little, holding a switchblade at the ready. He was smarter than the others. She held her weapon like a katana, trying to keep the distance between them.

"You still have time to run away," she growled menacingly. The Burning One stared at her. Looked down at his friends on the ground. Back at her. She waved the bar threateningly.

"Just kill the bitch," said the one who was still conscious. The other hesitated. Then turned and ran. Grinning fiercely, she raised the iron bar over her head and brought it down on the last one's skull. He crumpled. She laughed.

Then belated horror hit her like a bulldozer, and she fell to her knees, shuddering. Had she actually killed them? Were they real people? She tried hard not to vomit. What was she doing here?

The little man. She looked for him and saw that he hadn't moved from the spot where he had fallen.

"Hey…are you okay?" He didn't answer. "Sir? Little guy?" She put a hand on his shoulder, carefully rolling him over onto his back.

Oh, not good. He was unconscious, barely breathing, his skin pale and clammy. His pretty face was marred by dark bruises and a set of burn marks on one cheek. Her hand came away from his shoulder sticky with blood.

"No," he moaned softly.

"Relax. You're safe now." She tried to raise him to a sitting position. He hissed in pain and opened his eyes, startled to find himself cradled in the arms of a strange woman.

"Leave me alone," he said weakly.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"Mask…where's my mask? I need it."

"We'll get you another one," she said impatiently. "Come on. It's not safe here. Can you get up?" His eyes fell shut.

"Cold," he mumbled. She held him close, trying to give him some of her body heat.

She recognized the signs of shock. He had lost a lot of blood. And there were no hospitals available to them, not anymore.

"I'm going to get you some help, okay?" She squeezed his hand. "Promise." His eyes fluttered open. He clung to her hand when she tried to pull away.

"Don't leave," he said pathetically. She eased him down gently to the ground.

"Will you make up your mind?" She stared into his blue eyes until she was sure she had his attention. "I am coming back."

She left him lying on the ground, alone and afraid, in the dark. She looked back once and realized that he was wearing an unbound straitjacket over the uniform of an Arkham inmate. An escaped lunatic? Even if he was, he didn't look very dangerous, especially in the shape he was in now.

She ran up the steps of the nearest apartment building and banged on the first door she came to. No answer. She moved on to the next one.

"Help!" she yelled as she hammered on the door.

"Go to hell!"

"Same to you, bitch." She ran to the next door. "Hey, in there! I need help!"

The door opened, and she found herself face-to-face with a tall, heavyset man in a wifebeater and boxers.

"Come inside, lady," he said.

"Oh, thank you! There's a man outside; he's hurt bad—hey!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. "What are you doing? I told you, there's a man out there who needs help."

"I ain't into dudes." With a gasp of horror, she tried to pull her arm out of his grip.

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch! I don't have time for this! Let go!"

She recognized the sound of a shotgun pumping a split second before the heavy guy did.

"You heard the lady. Let her go," said a raspy, masculine voice from somewhere behind her.

"You want the bitch? Take her," the heavy guy growled. He shoved her away from him and slammed his door.

The woman collided with something solid and warm. She looked up into the scarred and weather-beaten face of an old man—a former soldier, she guessed from his posture and the cut of his white hair.

"You all right, young lady?" She nodded and burst into tears. "All right, don't cry. You're safe now. I won't hurt you."

"Please—there's a man outside—I think he's going to die if he doesn't get help soon."

"Show me."

She ran outside with the soldier man behind her, forgetting to watch for danger, forgetting everything but the bloody little man.

He had moved slightly, trying to crawl away, but now he was unconscious again. She fell to her knees beside him, not realizing that she was staining her pants by landing in a pool of his blood, and took his hand. His fingers were like ice.

"Hey, I came back," she said. He didn't respond.

"Your friend is an Arkham escapee." She looked up at the old soldier.

"I know, but he needs help."

"And these other men?"

"They're the reason why he needs help. Please, we're wasting time!"

"All right." He handed her his shotgun.

"I don't know how to shoot this thing!"

"Just don't tell _them_ that." He bent and scooped up the other man in his arms, straightening slowly. "Damn arthritis. You follow me, now, and be careful with that boomstick."

She followed them inside, keeping her eyes fearfully trained on the small one's bruised face. He looked—she didn't want to think it—he looked dead.

Inside his apartment, the soldier laid their patient down on a couch and stood up, pressing a hand to his back.

"Won't be doing that again soon. Come on, girl. We've got to stop the bleeding."

"I…I don't know how." She was shivering now, so hard the shotgun rattled in her hands. He took it away from her.

"You afraid of blood?" She stared at him.

"No."

"You afraid of looking at a naked man?"

"Um…no."

"Then get his clothes off, find the source of the bleeding, and stop it. I'll be back with blankets."

He disappeared.

She looked down at her patient.

"I'll just…stop the bleeding, then." She wrapped her arms around him to undo the straps of the straitjacket, noticing for the first time how thin he really was under all that padding. She squeezed him once before she let him go, then pulled his right arm, slick with blood, out of its sleeve. He whimpered. "Shhh…it's okay. I'm here now." She pulled the jacket away from his left arm. He cried out in pain. She winced. "Oh, God!" His wrist was broken.

"Got that blanket. He going to make it?" She looked up at the old man.

"Broken wrist—what do I do?"

"You a doctor?" he asked.

"If I were, would I live around _here_?"

"Well, neither am I, and I'm guessing he isn't, either, so you're just going to have to use a little common sense." He tossed her the blanket. "I'm going to check on those other two."

"But what do I do?"

"Frankly, my dear, I think you can handle it. Keep him warm. Don't let him bleed out—applying pressure would be a good start. Don't talk to strangers. I'll be back in a minute."

"Wait! Don't leave me alone!"

He shut the door behind him and locked it. She never saw him again.

Trying to ignore the smoke and the smell of burning—by now she had surmised that they weren't exactly real—she spread the blanket over her friend. The clothes could stay on. It wasn't like she couldn't see what part of him was bleeding.

She pressed her hands against the wound in his shoulder, keeping up a steady stream of comforting chatter, more for her sake than for his.

"You're safe now, guy. I don't know what all they did to you, but it won't happen again. You're going to be all right."

He moaned softly

"Yeah, I know, but what kind of person would I have been if I had just left you there? That's not right. Smarter, maybe, but not right."

He groaned.

"Don't be scared…" She laughed. "I don't even know your name, do I? I don't guess it really matters. I'll take care of you, little guy. I'll be your friend. You're safe here."

After a few minutes, when the old man still had not returned, she tore up an old sheet and bandaged her buddy's shoulder. Then, for hours, she just sat on the floor, waiting, watching him for any change, holding his hand. Some time after dawn, when she fell asleep, his hand was still in hers.

A few nightmares later, she woke up alone with the bloodstained blanket spread over her shoulders. The Arkham uniform was lying on the floor next to her.

"Hey, um, guy? Are you up? Hello?" She threw off the blanket and stood up. "Hello?" He was long gone. She looked outside anyway, just in case, half expecting to find him lying just outside the door, but he had made it farther than she would have thought he could. He was gone, and a few seconds out there convinced her to go back inside and stay there until help arrived.

They knew nothing about each other. Neither one ever learned so much as the other's name, but she never quite forgot him.

As for him, years later he would still occasionally catch himself studying the faces of his female victims, hoping, without really knowing why, for another glimpse of the woman who had once conquered her fears to save a total stranger's life. But he never met her again.


End file.
